There wasn't a sound now except the "jabble" or lapping of the water as the boat moved slowly up and down. The night was delightfully clear; the stars so bright and near it seemed as though they were not many oars' lengths overhead. The Southern Cross was particularly brilliant. No clouds in the sky except a few rock-and-tower-shaped ones low down on the western horizon, behind which the tropical lightning played intermittently.
But never a sound.
"Hark again!" cried Harris.
Yes; every one heard it now—far down to leeward.
"It is but the cry of a bird," said the officer.
"It's only a Mother Carey's chicken," said the stroke.
"Round with her, lads," cried Sub-Lieutenant Wilson. "Give way port. Off she dances. We'll soon see."
The beacon light was out, but a lantern was hung up, and away went the lifeboat. Though I say life-boat, reader, remember she was but an ordinary whaler.
After pulling for some time, they could hear the cries ahead distinctly enough.
They answered with a vigorous shout, and redoubled their efforts, for the cries were unmistakably those of a drowning man.